


Performance Review

by fairbreeze



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Other, Tentacles, a little bit dub-conish, and not really because it is actually a word that is said, but only in the sense that Station Management clearly doesn't know the meaning of the word "no", xenokink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbreeze/pseuds/fairbreeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After going "off-air" at the end of episode 3, Cecil discovers that sneaking out of the booth past Station Management is not a thing that is happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Review

**Author's Note:**

> Accidental fill for a Cecil/Station Management prompt on nightvalecommunitykink. Written in the process of trying to write a fill for a completely different prompt, which will likely end up as a sequel to this one.
> 
> I am not even sorry.

Cecil turned off the microphone and set it, with no small amount of reverence, on the ground next to him. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the side of his desk and considered his next move. He’d said, of course, that he was going to make a break for it, something cool and heroic to leave his listeners with, full of dramatic tension and excitement. It was, in his opinion, the mark of a good radio host to make that kind of dramatic tension for one’s listeners, even if it was the last thing he did.

Particularly, in fact, if it were the last thing he did, which it was looking like it very well might be, his brave words on the radio notwithstanding.

In reality, things were quite a bit grimmer and less heroic than that. In reality, he _really_ didn’t want to move. It was nice here, underneath this desk, an area comprised entirely of _not_ horrible, eldritch death and screaming dismemberments. He was fond of it, and it’s lack of those things, particularly with the horrible footsteps and low scraping noises he could hear coming from the other side of a wall that had always seemed pretty solid, but was entirely too thin for his liking right now. Free from the responsibility of having to even attempt to be the collected broadcaster, he curled in on himself, just a bit, and allowed himself the luxury of one, tiny little whimper.

(Everyone agreed, when he’d earned his Whimpering in Submission to a Dark God badge, that he’d had the best supplicant whimper out of his entire troop—even Steve Carlsberg had been impressed. He hadn’t been able to tell _what_ it was Earl Harlan had been, but then, he’d never much known what to make of Earl Harlan.)

The scraping paused at the sound of his whimper and then there was, suddenly, a new sound, the sound of pawing, as though something on the other side was trying to open the door but didn’t understand the concept of doorknobs. Or possibly didn’t understand the concept of _hands_ , it wasn’t immediately clear. However, one thing _was_ immediately clear, and that was that Station Management was deliberately trying to get into the booth.

_Station Management was trying to get into the booth_.

Oddly, survival instincts not withstanding, that actually _calmed_ Cecil somewhat. If Station Management actually wanted him, specifically, his chances of survival were not just slim-- they were non-existent. Paradoxically, the removal of choice in the matter also deadened some of the fear. He could wait here in a puddle of fear and probable eventual screaming until Station Management broke down the door, or he could stand and face his oncoming death like a Night Vale Community Radio Employee, proud and knowing that he had done his duty to community radio and to Night Vale.

_I wish I’d maybe had a little more time to get to know Carlos_ , he thought, _and it would really have been nice to have known how Breaking Bad ended_. His fingers curled around the microphone again, more like a totem to ineffectually ward off his inevitable death a few more short minutes than any kind of a weapon, and slowly uncurled, shifting to peer up over the desk.

And froze.

He was aware, in that moment, of several things. One was that he was breathing entirely too loudly, even the blood rushing through his veins sounding deafening in the silence. Another was that the area just outside the window to the sound booth wasn’t dark, it was _covered_ , and covered by something darker even than the mere absence of light. The final thing was that within the darker-than-darkness, there were countless _mouths_ , opening and closing slowly against the glass. There were eyes as well, none of them human, but it was the mouths that drew his attention, lips sliding open and closed wetly against the glass, tongues behind them pressing against the thin barrier.

The doorknob rattled again, and he fumbled the microphone in surprise, coming out of the long, endless moment with a start. He rose the rest of the way to his feet, made sure the microphone was on the table, and took a slow, measured step backwards. The eyes seemed to follow him. The mouths worked against the glass, their motions seeming obscene in their inhumanity. How much weight could the glass take? How long did he have before Station Management simply broke the glass and--

Wait. How much weight _could_ the glass take? And, for that matter, was Station Management really even confined to the physical plane? Surely the door itself could pose little to no barrier, or Jerry could have just run into the bathroom and hidden in a stall, rather than getting tragically devoured. Or assimilated. Whichever.

The point was, the room wasn’t impenetrable in the slightest. Cecil felt his head tilt to the side, like a curious bird. If Station Management _could_ break in, and it certainly could, then why wasn’t it? Why would it make such a _human_ gesture as rattling the handle? Why would it simply stare at him through the soundproof glass, allowing him to stand there and gape back at it, its quarry visible, and within easy reach?

Only one reason presented itself, as foreign as it was inevitable.

It wanted _him_ to come to _it_.

But _why_? There was only one way to find out, of course, but even knowing that, even knowing that whatever his fate was, it was already inevitable, whether he opened the door or not, it still took him a long series of moments before he could make himself walk any closer to the door.

The eyes followed him as he went, the mouths opening and closing more emphatically now, faster. The door handle rattled, encouragingly, when he reached for it. It did not turn. When his hand closed around it, and _he_ turned it, he realized the door hadn’t even been locked. He hesitated. Five minutes ago, he would have said Station Management wanted to kill him, that his death at their not-hands was nearly inevitable. Now, he was fairly sure _death_ wasn’t what stood waiting for him on the other side of the door. But he had lived in Night Vale his whole life.

Death not being what awaited him was a cold, cold comfort.

He braced himself, and opened the door.

He was expecting, if he were honest with himself, to immediately regret that decision, even as he recognized it as the only one he could reasonably make. But all that awaited him on the other side of the door was another wall of darker-than-darkness, viscous and light devouring both, stretched across the entirety of the doorframe. It made his head swim a bit, looking at it and there was a certain level of _calm_ that seemed to have come over him, as though it were a dream and he were both merely observing the passing events and intimately, wholly connected to them. He wasn’t sure if he had gone mad, or was being controlled, or possibly just had been pushed so far past the limits of what he could reasonably be expected to feel or fear that there was nothing left, but he was almost emotionless, save for a strange, innocent _curiosity_ , when he reached out towards it.

A black tendril, about as big around as his thumb and forefinger held in a completed “O”, snaked out of the blackness, slowly and, when he did not move his hand, slid delicately across his palm and curled softly around his wrist, the touch so gentle it was barely there at all, as though it were deliberately trying not to be frightening.

_I shouldn’t be afraid. It doesn’t want to hurt me._

It wasn’t quite telepathy, or communication, it was just a sudden, unexpected surety, so different from his typical impression of Station Management that he knew it _had_ to come from outside his head. 

_I shouldn’t scream. Or run. Or fight. That will make it… unhappy._

He didn’t plan on doing any of those things, though, not like this, not while it was not hurting him, while it was trying to _calm_ him, reassure him. It passed through his mind that this could be some kind of a trick, but then, what need would it have for tricks? If it had wanted to, it could have broken through the door. If it wanted to, it could snap him in half, and there would be nothing at all he could do about it. Any gentleness on Station Management’s part was a deliberate choice, not anything it owed him, or had to do. So he stood there, still and silent, waited, while more of the tendrils detached themselves and wriggled towards him.

He did jump, just a bit, when one of them brushed against a cheek, the touch even more gentle than the one curled around his wrist, almost a caress, but he didn’t run, didn’t scream, just tilted his head more to the side, more like an inquisitive bird than permission to continue, not that the creature needed it, 

“Why?” a normal person might be glad their voice didn’t shake, but he used his for a living and it obeyed him utterly. (He did not yet know how untrue that was, but then, nothing _unusual_ had ever happened to him, yet, nothing traumatic) He’s not sure what, precisely, he was asking the question _about_ , just that it seemed, at the moment, like the only one that mattered. Why was he still alive? Why had it not broken down the door? Why had it left it’s room? Why was it touching him like this?

It was unclear if the shadow tentacle sliding around his throat was an answer or not, but the tip of it curled in the hollow of his collarbone and then stroked upwards, clearly deliberate, along his neck. Along his vocal cords. The touch was so tender and _covetous_ that goosebumps broke out down his arms and he swayed on his feet, just a little, unsure if the rushing sound in his ears was Station Management, or all of the blood leaving his head and a prelude to the most dangerous faint of his life.

He didn’t faint, though, and a second and then a third tentacle joined the first, rubbing against his throat and neck like a cat arching into a caress.

_Or a lover’s touch_

He wasn’t sure if that was Station Management, or his own thought, but he tipped his head back just slightly, anyway, and felt the sensation of the touch that much keener, spreading down from his neck, heat and ice. He felt as though he should be panicking now, but he didn’t. He wondered if maybe his legs were about to give out. No. No his legs were _definitely_ about to give out.

Despite the lack of fear, he might have screamed, just a little, more a yelp, really, when more dark, ropy tendrils shot out and snared his limbs, pulling him directly _into_ the black mass at the doorway. He struggled, madly at first, the same way someone who doesn’t know how to swim might struggle if they were thrown in a pond, but there were easily a dozen, soothing touches against his skin, soft and a strange kind of warm-cool, a surface that was colder, with a warm underneath, stroking against him, _petting_ him, until he quieted.

There was no distinction of space, wherever he was, no sign of whether he was still in the station or if he was somewhere else altogether. He could breathe, which he was doing a little too rapidly, feeling a bit light-headed, and he was also clearly not standing anymore. However, he also wasn’t falling and he wasn’t laying on anything, either. It was exactly like being underwater, but without the resistance of the water, and with the addition of a lot of stroking, clinging, curling tentacles that might or might not have been trying to seduce him.

Okay, no, they were _definitely_ trying to seduce him. The brush of one across his mouth, along with the sudden, slight sensation of _moisture_ from it was _clearly_ supposed to be some kind of approximation of a kiss, possibly stolen from his own mind, possibly stolen from watching humans, _definitely_ not from it being something Station Management ever did, itself. 

Well then.

This was weird. Even for Night Vale, this was _weird_. And not only was it weird, it was probably _illegal_. There were _rules_ about this kind of thing, weren’t there? It was the time of the year for negotiations; surely this was some kind of coercion or harassment, wasn’t it? To be fair, though, Station Management hadn’t actually threatened his _job_ , just his life, which meant he wasn’t sure if this even fell under those rules’ jurisdiction.

He told himself that the decision to kiss back, to open his mouth for the press of one of those inhuman tentacles, had everything to do with making a reasonable, informed decision about consent and the consequences thereof, and nothing to do with the tendrils already rubbing deep, firm circles in the hollows of his hips in a way that was making his back arch. 

Station Management tasted like starlight and the slightly sickening, slightly addictive taste of the Void and whether he was simply relaxing, or whatever was dripping down the back of his throat now, like honey, was doing the relaxing for him, he found himself coming slowly _unwound_ , submitting, pleasantly, to the inevitability of the unknowable, and whatever was going to happen next. 

(That Station Management seemed to know precisely how to move in his mouth in such a way that his toes curled a bit in his shoes was completely immaterial and not at all worth mentioning.)

Clearly, Station Management was pleased with him, and it made the pleasure known the same way it had made those earlier thoughts known—by pumping said pleasure directly into his brain.

_It was better than he had expected, being like this, touching something so different,_ being _touched. Everything was unexpectedly good and it had been so long and he was so very, very obliging and the human body made such pretty shapes when it wasn’t contorted in terror and useless pleading…_

_His Voice was so pretty. He should make more noises._

There was something about the word _Voice_ , echoing through his thoughts. It was clearly more than a noun, more than a designation for a _thing_. It was a _title_. It was possessive and _fond_ and the not-sound of it, echoing through his head, made him give into the desire to _moan_ , soft and tremulous.

And from there, everything spun rapidly out of both control and human comprehension.

It was an instant feedback loop, every single soft noise he made resulting in a sudden, overwhelming wave of startled, _enchanted_ pleasure, humming through his very soul. And there was no way _not_ to make noise at that, was there? It built and built until he honestly couldn’t say where his own pleasure began and ended, couldn’t tell if the voice he could hear was his own, or if he were the one taking pleasure in it.

He was aware, in a dim sort of way, that something had happened to his clothing, that something slick was pushing at him, and then _inside_ him, that tentacles were wound around his wrists, and ankles and thighs, holding him in place, moving him at will. There was a physical component, certainly, and it was as intense a thing as any sexual act could be. 

But it soon built into something else, Station Management moving not just inside his body, but his _brain_ , liquid smooth and oily, pouring warmth and satisfaction and want directly down his spinal column in a way that no human body could truly withstand or handle. It was too much. It hurt. It was _exquisite_.

Then, _then_ he screamed. He screamed, and it was the most beautiful thing Station Management had ever heard, and it told him so, over and over again, until his mind splintered into pieces.

\---

He remembered he was a “human”, first, long before he remembered what that meant. It was just a word, (Ah, he was thinking in _words_ now, how novel) with no meaning behind it, at first. And then, he remembered what it meant to be a human, and then, slowly, which particular human he was, distinct from all the others. Name. Identity. Self. Everything was a delicious kind of sore that made him want to stretch and curl up and sleep, even though the floor where he’d been carefully deposited was cold and a bit harder than he would have liked.

The tentacles pulling out of him made him squirm just a bit in loss, though the retreating of the mind connected to his, vast and unfathomable, had been so gentle that he’d barely noticed. Physical bodies, right? _Humanity_? 

At any rate, whatever it was was clearly over, and he was also clearly _alive_ , Station Management retreating slowly off his body and back through the door seeming, if he could be so bold as to assign such a thing to it, _satisfied_ , and maybe a little worn out, itself.

His clothing was nowhere to be found, but Station Management had not left him to fend for himself. Lying next to him on the ground was something that he first thought was a hole in the floor that one could fall through, into the limitless blackness of space. After a moment, though, he realized that it seemed to have just the slightest bit of height to it and, when he touched it, he realized it was _soft_ and very much solid.

Station Management had left him a _robe_. Not a bathrobe to be tied around himself for the single strangest walk of shame ever to be recorded, even in the history of Night Vale, but an actual _robe_ , as though he were a Grecian sacrifice, or perhaps an Oracle, revered, _feared_. It was thin and clung to his fingers, but was also the same kind of warm-cold that Station Management was against his skin, a chilling touch with radiating warmth beneath. He let it pool in his hands a moment, before pulling it on, and swore he could see _stars_ , deep in it’s depths.

The robe pooled around him on the floor, as he hadn’t managed to find his feet just yet, but even though the floor was still cold against his skin, the rest of him was already warmer. Beneath where it had been laying, there was a small, red envelope, which he opened with fingers that trembled with exhaustion, rather than any kind of fear.

A raise. A raise and excellently high marks on all of his evaluation scores and a tiny, anatomically correct and still actually bleeding heart drawn in the lower, right-hand corner.

Cecil threw back his head and _laughed_ and he felt something that was not quite yet out of his head purr in surprised pleasure. 

He was sore _everywhere_ now, even the inside of his skin, his organs, his soul, the pleasantness of it giving way to the knowledge he would have to move to make it home, but he pulled himself to his feet anyway, and then found it remarkably easy to straighten his spine, walking out into the night and his car and the drive home. 

And for that moment, when the cold desert air hit his skin, he felt as eternal as he did transient, wrapped both in the adoration of a creature too terrible to comprehend and his own inevitably decaying flesh. The radio station loomed behind him, a comforting presence at his back, a reminder that here, here he was beloved. Here, he was _home_ and safe and _protected_.

Forever.


End file.
